


Isaiah 14:12

by MoiraiThanatoio



Category: Christian Myth & History, House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Religious, M/M, Religion, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoiraiThanatoio/pseuds/MoiraiThanatoio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They would always have Princeton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isaiah 14:12

‘It was odd,’ James Wilson mused to himself. He recalled House’s funeral as a pompous affair that the man would have scorned. He recalled the oddly vastly numbered mourners. He recalled the expressions of respect that were spawned by the man’s odd charisma. He would never be able to clear from his mind the surreal detachment of hearing Gregory House eulogized.

But he couldn’t recall his own.

Wilson stared out a window that looked over both everything and nothing. His hands were no longer spotted. His back and hips no longer ached with years on his feet and too few concessions to the demands of an aging body. He wore, once again, the simple slacks and crisp white damask that were so much a uniform for him during his days in New Jersey.

Curiously, he looked down at himself. The white lab coat bore his name and the legend of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Heaven, it seemed, was all about being taken to where you were happiest.

“Oh, you’re definitely not in Heaven.”

The scornful, despising voice was the first inference that James wasn’t alone in this strange place. He turned, meeting the gaze of someone who looked a lot like he remembered the brother of his first wife. Similarly to the man’s gaze after their divorce, this person’s was twisted in vile disgust at his presence.

“Who are you?” Wilson asked. It was the least offensive of the questions that waited on his tongue. Probably to be followed by others if he was a less publicly polite person. Demands such as ‘Why do you hate me?’, ‘Who gave you that god-awful leather jacket?’, and ‘Aren’t angels supposed to be polite?’

The face cooled into detachment. As it did, it lost the resemblance he’d first seen and became an amorphous presentation of humanoid. No feature that you’d remember three seconds after passing this person on the street stood out in any way. In passing, you probably wouldn’t be able to even say if the person had been male of female.

“I am the Metatron,” echoed around Wilson, vibrating within his body. The sharp denial of reaction kept the other words outside his very self yet still confined to the room. “And you,” the figure’s eyes narrowed in dislike, “will be ready to hear His voice far sooner than any of us ever hoped would happen again.”

Wilson turned away, not prepared to deal with the concept of an angel that hated him. He gazed out upon the view and let his mind wander. It went, as it had so many times in the waning of his life, to the person who had influenced him the most.

House had claimed atheism. He’d denied thinking of himself as God, but never stopped acting like anything he did or said was far more important than others. He’d tolerated Wilson’s professions of faith, but had never expressed his own belief. And he’d openly mocked religion.

“Because they all get it wrong.”

The acerbic words in a voice he’d never forget had James spinning in place. He staggered as he came to a stop, staring at Gregory House. He stood, arms hanging simply by his side, the bright orange chasing on his athletic shoes a sharp contrast to the variegated grays of his clothing.

There was no cane.

The realization had Wilson grinning openly, biting his lower lip in a futile attempt to contain the joy. Of course there was no cane. There wouldn’t be here.

“You can say that in the face of all this?”

Wilson’s question was answered with a simple shrug. It said, to someone who’d learned to speak House oh so many years ago - what does all this have to do with it?

“Oh, come on, House… Surely even you have to admit that there is a God.”

House seemed amused, but made no move to step forward. “Yes, Jimmy,” he minced out in the same way he’d once teased Chase about Santa Claus, “there is a God.”

The muffled snort from the side of their exchange caught House’s pointed attention. He turned his head, gracing the Metatron with a sharp-eyed glance. The figure answered with a raise of both hands in front of him.

“Yeah, yeah, places to go, things to do,” the angel scoffed as he turned to exit. Not that Wilson could identify anything that looked like a door… And if there wasn’t, how exactly did House get here? “Didn’t want to have to see this anyway,” the Metatron finished moodily as he vanished.

“What’s going on?” Wilson asked hesitantly. His hands rose to smooth his tie and adjust the already perfect knot. There was a part of him clamoring that something was wrong, wrong, wrong. The other part demanded that if House was here with him, then he could just have faith that everything would be okay.

“That always surprised me…” House stated with a rueful twist of the lips at his own admission. “Your faith in me may have wavered at times, but it never failed you.”

“House?” James asked, beginning to shake with what felt like the beginnings of a seizure. He never saw his former best friend move, but he was there. Holding him inside a circle of arms that had always comforted Wilson once they’d become lovers, House pressed his cheek to James’ temple.

“Don’t fight it, Helel.”

Wilson screamed.

It was painful. It was cruel. The rush of memories, feelings, occurrences, burned through his body. He’d seen reactions in pop culture during the life he had lived that sought to contain these very emotions. None managed to encompass the true agony.

An eternity passed in a flicker of a moment. Then, panting and weak, the physical form of James Wilson still clung to the physical form of Gregory House.

Sometime during his fugue, House had lowered them both to the ground. James found himself sitting in his lover’s lap, staring out once more at the view.

He recognized it now. Neither Heaven nor Hell, nor the physical plane, they were somehow between all.

Even as his fingers clenched tighter in the cotton of the unbuttoned long-sleeved shirt House had worn so often over his tees, James railed, “You vicious bastard…” He choked on the weight of his emotions, forcing back the betrayal, resentment, and rage. “How? Why?” None of it formed into an absolute question.

“You forgot selfish.”

Wilson scrambled back off the comforting presence. He ended up perched crab-like, collapsing back on his own hands with his ass bruising from the sheer cold of the ground. “Damn You.”

“Perhaps,” House acknowledged, rising to his feet. There was none of the awkwardness or hesitation that had so marked him in his injury. When he was standing again, he slid his hands into his pockets and no longer would meet Wilson’s eyes. “Your punishment became my own. I’ve never been good with self-denial.”

Hesitantly, penitent, James rose to his knees. He was reaching out with one hand in a form emulated throughout classic art. “Then let me come home.”

“I can’t,” House bit out decisively. He turned to James, so many emotions flashing in the perfect Heavenly blue of His eyes. “But we’ll always have Princeton.”

House had never functioned by Committee, never acknowledged the need for a Board, a meeting, a second opinion, or an appeal. He still didn’t. He simply disappeared, depriving the figure on his knees once more of his presence.

And Lucifer wept.


End file.
